


A Sip

by convolutedConcussion



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: A Serious Lack of Resolution, Angry Plane Sex, M/M, this is very self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 22:16:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1704521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is <i>not</i> working it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sip

**Author's Note:**

> We all know there are going to be a billion fics about the plane scene.  
> Just let it happen.  
> Try to enjoy it.  
> I'll be over here crying.

The air hangs heavy and thick with the things they cannot say—with a decade's worth of anger and pain, of confessions and, in spite of all that, an aching sort of love that makes Erik's stomach clench. He never knew there would be a time when he would almost miss Charles in his head. And maybe that's not even it. Maybe he misses the simplicity, the ease of it. Speaking without words, exchanging ideas faster than a blink. They've had entire arguments, right there in their heads, hours and days and weeks worth of rhetoric and passion and experience and ideals jammed up into a few moments, all in their minds. It would have been so easy to lay out the last decade, to show Charles what had happened. After all this time, words still feel so rudimentary, so savage, when faced with someone with so much power.

And for him to have  _sacrificed_ it. Erik is sick. He takes another drink.

He would be lying if he said he didn't feel some measure of relief. So long outside of the company of a telepath, without the protection of the helmet, the confused rush of emotion at their meeting would have been... It would have made all this harder. To feel all of Charles' blasted judgment, his hatred and disgust, to have laid bare all that he feels and felt and to have been greeted with that—or worse, to have laid it all forth and to have felt a rush of  _understanding_ or  _sympathy_ from the other man, as he is so prone to do—would have been a distraction. It would have made everything more difficult. It would have gotten them killed.

Charles wins the first round, but Erik did not go easy on him. He feels himself smile against the cool rim of his tumbler, accepts a refill as he almost thoughtlessly resets.

There's something about finally, finally being able to use his power after all this time that gives him, what, heart? He feels shockingly—not content, but at ease, here, where he feels control. Where he can grip the metal around him, pull it as he wants it to go. He feels alive, after so long under ground, feeling and searching for anything he can touch. He would find it, far above him, out of his reach, like a taunt. What does being bereft of the minds of everyone around him feel like, he wonders, eyes intent on the man in front of him

“You know,” he says slowly, tongue liquor-warm and words loose. “I _bet_ we've got time for a haircut before we touch down. And, God, Charles, have you forgotten how to dress yourself in my absence?”

The other man scrapes fingers through his hair and mumbles something about  _un_ dressing himself before, “You're not gonna touch my hair. And you've got a hell of a lot of nerve talking about  _my_ fashion sense. A purple cape, really?”

“I'm a traditionalist,” he answers, smirking.

Charles gives him an exaggerated look of pain, and for a moment Erik can see through the last decade, can see the Charles he once knew, past heavily-ringed eyes and unkempt hair he sees the man who teased him and taught him, and fought with him. And fought him. Who loved him, he knows; who still does, somehow, he thinks. In that moment, he thinks they can do this. They can cancel out the future, erase decades of fighting one another. He dreams mournfully of the future they have now, far apart, enemies, when all he could want is Charles by his side—a powerful ally, yes, but a friend, too. He wonders if he thinks hard enough he could get through. Charles is, after all, still a telepath, and from what he understands the treatment is very much temporary. How long must it last, he wonders.

“Don't,” Charles coughs, standing almost too quickly. “Please don't--” and he thinks it must work for half a moment, “--Don't look at me like that. _Your_ judgment, _his_ judgment, _Hank's_ worry and disapproval. I can't--”

“Oh, _I'm_ sorry, you can't take judgment? But you dole it out so well,” Erik snipes back.

“You don't know what it's _like_ ,” he hisses back, then, straightening, repeats, “You don't know what it's like. They're all—you're all in so much pain, you have so many fears, I can't take it!” It's not an argument, it's a plea, and Erik never did do well with pleas for pity. Still, he says nothing, and Charles' eyes go to the man sleeping in the back of the plane. It's not his power, but he practically feels the unsaid words on his own tongue and waits and waits and finally the anger seems to drain out of his friend until he sags, their tableau mirroring one before, one seated, the other leaning against the arm of another chair. “I don't have anything else, Erik. Be so _kind_ as to grant me the freedom to walk around my own damn property, won't you?”

After a breath of silence, Charles stands, wobbling a little with drink and turbulence, and excuses himself. There's a strange, hollow feeling in the pit of his gut, and Erik follows shortly. The bathroom door isn't completely shut and, aware of the sort of reception he will get, he slides it open.

“I don't want to fight you, Erik,” Charles mumbles into the sink, faucet running and face streaming with water. He looks suddenly very tired in the unflattering light, old almost.

“I told you, my friend, we want the same things.” His voice sounds strained to his own ears. How long, though, has it been since he's heard it? No need to talk in solitary.

“The continuance of our kind, yes, yes,” he murmurs, turning to face him in the confined space. Erik does not think, just acts, hand curling around the back of Charles' neck—it's damp there, too—pulling him forward until their faces are maybe an inch apart. “Really, Erik, here? Now?” he scoffs, eyes down.

“I haven't had a real sip in ten years, Charles,” he answers, laughter shuddering against his lips.

“You're an ass.”

“You should be quiet, you'll wake your friend in there,” he mocks. He doesn't wait for an answer, and the kiss is messy and hard and their teeth click together and it _hurts_. The emptiness, the utter aloneness in his head feels foreign now, with him. Cut off, the way it felt with the helmet but that had been _his_ choice. The name grinds out of his throat without his meaning to, a rough whine, a plea.

Charles disengages, presses their foreheads together, shakes. “I couldn't, I  _couldn't_ ,” he answers. Erik strokes his face, hands wet with tears, holds him there, curses in his mind and aches for the answering, echoing amusement that would follow. There's anger but it's hopeless, a cold, bitter thing that settles in him. This gives him no power.

“Shut up,” he orders or begs, kisses him again, and this time it's frantic but there's an edge of control, containment, and they push and pull at one another and Charles almost chokes him with the ascot in his rush to unknot it. This could be a dream. He had lots of dreams like this, after and in prison, dreams of a likeness of Charles but there was nothing there, no one with him.

“I felt you in emptiness, Erik,” he whispers, eyes closed. “You took so much away. I've never— _lost_ anything integral to myself before. I felt broken. Everyone was pain and I looked for you and you were gone.”

“We've got a second chance,” he hears himself promising. “We can make it... We can do this, better, now that we know.”

Charles sucks in a shaky breath and doesn't answer. His fingers work, clumsy, at Erik's buttons, and Erik leans back, shoulders hitting the thin wall behind him. “Remember the flight from DC to Salem?” he asks, hoarse and barely audible.

Erik huffs, “When you had to erase the memories of everyone on board?”

“Well,” Charles murmurs, hands flat and hot on his skin, “If you'll recall, you were the one who almost ripped apart the plane. No use traumatizing those poor people over your orgasm.”

“If _you'll_ recall, you were using your power in a less than pure manner at the time, attributing to my loss of control,” he answers, pulling for the metal in the telepath's clothes until they're flush. “Normalcy doesn't suit you, Charles.”

“Fuck _you,”_ he grits, shifting to unfasten Erik's jeans.

He thinks but doesn't say that he's rather enjoying the opportunity to be the self-righteous one. He isn't, anyway, it makes his mouth taste like sand. His head thunks against the wall when a hand wraps around his dick, his own fingers tangling into that mess of hair and dragging until they're sighing into each other, still too rough, hand too dry. He could use his power to get Charles out of his own pants but he doesn't, relishes the contact. Pushing his hand out of the way, he pulls the other close, holds him by the hips. They don't talk anymore, hardly moan, they press and rub and Charles hasn't changed a bit, hips moving, jerky, uncontrolled.

Charles comes first, face pressed into Erik's shoulder, breath hot and wet and choking out something that sounds desperate, like a sob. Erik knows, as he follows, that he's holding on to his hair too tightly, clenching his teeth around a groan fighting to escape because it's been  _so long_ and he holds him there, too tight, too hard, until they both stop panting. When they do pull apart, sticky and wet and shaking, Charles looks at him, broken-open and honest for a split second before closing off, eyes going distant in a way that's both familiar and unfamiliar.

It's odd and reversed and wrong. Erik orders, voice wrecked, “Kiss me again.”

Nodding, Charles does, chaste and closed-lipped.

The silence falls. The air is heavy with things they've said, and would say, and can't say. They clean up and return to their seats, return to their game.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I should also say I only saw the movie once so far and I'm basically an emotional wreck someone talk to me.


End file.
